


The Cigarette Bitch

by Aftenstjerne



Category: The Addams Family (Movies)
Genre: And I don't care lol, BDSM, F/F, Food Kink, MILF stands for Morticia I'd like to fuck, Married Couple, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Situational Humiliation, The plot is a bit illogical, Vaginal Fingering, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, graphical depictions of a SPARKLY dress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26957932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aftenstjerne/pseuds/Aftenstjerne
Summary: Morticia knows what she is after and she is sure Gomez knows it too. Still, he chooses to play along in her little game, overly happy to light her cigarette and smiling widely as he does so. And the whore has the nerve to smile back at him in such a sultry way that Morticia has to ram her nails into her palms in order not to slap her in the face in front of everyone. Tempting as it is, it would have been way beyond her dignity to show her feelings in such an uncontrolled manner. Instead, she pushes her husband into a series of backflips, pretending it was all a part of their dance.As soon as the applause fades out, she breaks their embrace and steers towards the coat check without a word of explanation to her husband. The girl with the cigarette just went in that direction, and Morticia is determined to follow her. No one looks at her Gomez like that without having to face the consequences.What exactly the consequences should be, she has yet to figure out. There is a contradiction tugging at her gut, a need for this night to be something far apart from the ordinary, and she becomes unpredictable even to herself. And even more so to Gomez, but right now she honestly thinks that is what he deserves.
Relationships: Gomez Addams/Morticia Addams
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	The Cigarette Bitch

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based upon the tango scene in Values. I thought that the pretty little bitch with a cigarette deserved her own fic. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: This fic contains graphic depictions of a very sparkly dress. If that is traumatizing to you, consider yourself warned. In addition to that I would like to say: Please don't eat mushrooms (or anything of similar consistency) while you read this. I did while writing, and I weirded myself out lol. 
> 
> Thank you to the amazing helloitshaley for betaing. 
> 
> Comments are life :D

Morticia and Gomez are moving in perfect unison over the marble tiles of the renovated bistro. Everyone’s eyes are on them, and that is how she likes it. Morticia is an exhibitionist if ever there was one. She loves being on display, with or without her sparkly dress. And the bistro guests make for such a perfect audience. There is admiration in the air tonight; she can hear it, as a faint murmur through the crowd when she spins over the floor, all flaring hair and sequins and perfection and control. 

Morticia revels in it all.

Gomez’s eyes on her, the crowd’s eyes on them, the exquisite music, her husband’s warm hands sliding down the length of her arms to lace his fingers with hers.

All of sudden he breaks contact with her, fervently searching for something in his pocket. Startled by her husband’s sudden and unexpected move, she stays completely still for a while, glaring at the creature who distracted Gomez.

_Short hair, bambi eyes, early-twenties, a cigarette jutting out suggestively between plump, red lips. Just another harlot hanging out in the bistro, looking for a sugar daddy._

Morticia knows what she is after and she is sure Gomez knows it too. Still, he chooses to play along in her little game, overly happy to light her cigarette and smiling widely as he does so. And the whore has the nerve to smile back at him in such a sultry way that Morticia has to ram her nails into her palms in order not to slap her in the face in front of everyone. Tempting as it is, it would have been way beyond her dignity to show her feelings in such an uncontrolled manner. Instead, she pushes her husband into a series of backflips, pretending it was all a part of their dance. When it comes to dancing, she is a master of improvisation. One has to be to be able to follow an Addams man.

The music stops and Gomez dips her elegantly into a long, open- mouthed kiss. Morticia hears the popping from the champagne bottles and the cheering from the crowd.

_This could have been such a perfect moment._

As soon as the applause fades out, she breaks their embrace and steers towards the coat check without a word of explanation to her husband. The girl with the cigarette just went in that direction, and Morticia is determined to follow her. No one looks at her Gomez like that without having to face the consequences. 

What exactly the consequences should be, she has yet to figure out. There is a contradiction tugging at her gut, a need for this night to be something far apart from the ordinary, and she becomes unpredictable even to herself. And even more so to Gomez, but right now she honestly thinks that is what he deserves.

Nothing, Gomez thinks, as he jogs behind his wife, her high heels clicking against the wet concrete while her hair and coat blow dramatically in the wind, nothing looks as good on his wife as anger does. He would never admit it to her. That would only have gotten him into what Pugsley calls “deep shit”. Still, seeing that mask of cold demeanour crackle to give place for such a glorious display of rage is a treat, a rare one.

It turns him on.

Beyond that, it confirms the idea he nurtures that deep inside the two of them are more alike than she thinks they are. They share the same passion, the need for intensity and the willingness to shamelessly give in to their desires regardless of the circumstances. In the dark cavities of their chests beats the same flammable type of heart, which ignites so easily when touched by the tiniest ember of jealousy. He has never felt threatened by her anger before. If anything, it makes him love her even more.

But why must she hunt down an innocent young woman? Her only crime was to smile at him and he does not think she deserves to die because of that. Judging by the look Morticia gave him when he reached for her hand at the bistro coat check, really said it all.

His wife is on a killing spree.

His death, he reckons, will be slow and painful but highly metaphorical and enjoyable in the most perverse way. The girl’s death, he fears, will be very literal and permanent .Maybe he should not have played along with her game, but he is a spontaneous man and he thought he could fit this cheeky, little break into their dancing routine.

A tango is a tango, after all. It requires some extra drama.

Gomez really wishes that Morticia would save her anger for him. He is more than willing to be punished. He has not had a good whipping in a couple of weeks now, and it dawns upon him that he might have unconsciously asked for it by flirting with another woman. How he wishes that he were tied to the rack in the comfortable heat of their dungeon! Instead, he is out in the chill autumn air, slipping on wet leaves as he tries to keep up with his wife, his dancing shoes still on, and his coat unbuttoned.

“Morticia,” he pleads, “querida, please don’t do anything rash!”

She does not turn around nor does she answer.

_There is nothing_ , Morticia muses, _like a brisk walk when you need to clear your mind_. She does not often set a pace like that, but when she does, it works wonders for her decision-making.

She pictures her hands around that slender neck.

_A quick twist and it will snap like a dry twig. Or, make that a slow twist and the bones will rupture one after one, crackling like the icy surface of a pond under my stiletto heel._

As tempted as she is to go with this idea, there is another urge simmering in her blood stream tonight, a rare one, although it is not entirely new to her. A dangerous combination of rage and lust courses through her like a mad hymn, filling her veins with adrenaline.

They reach the seedy jazz bar, which the blasted flapper girl went into. Gomez is not surprised when Morticia proceeds past the line of waiting people and enters the bar without a word from the doorman. Neither is he surprised when the doorman comes over to him and asks him to show his ID card. He curses under his breath as he flips out the card from his wallet before handing it to the tall, bald brute. He squints at it for a few, long seconds.

Gomez rolls his eyes and sighs when he is asked to step out of the line.

“I’m an American citizen,” he sneers.

“I swear to you, I do not carry drugs.”

“What do you call these?” the doorman asks, as he picks up a small box from Gomez’s chest pocket.

“I call them ordinary cigars. Can’t you read? It says “La Gloria Cubana.” He points at the slanting letters on top of the box.

“It’s a famous cigar brand. Now would you please let me in, my wife is in there. I need to talk to her, it’s urgent.”

The moron lifts one cigar up to his nose and takes a long, suspicious sniff.

“Do you know what, I think I own this club,” Gomez blurts out, as he feels a sudden wave of déjà vu. There is something oddly familiar about the place, but he cannot put his finger on what it is.

The doorman takes a long, good look at Gomez with his watery, pig-like eyes.

“Haven’t seen you around before. Never been a Mexican at any of the board meetings as far as I can remember.”

Gomez hides his face in his hands and groans. This evening is getting out of control. For all that he knows, his brother might still be poking his nose with breadsticks in front of his date, while his wife is burying her knife to the hilt between a pair of perky breasts. And here he is, unable to stop any of it, once again mistaken for a Mexican drug lord.

He should have stayed at home.

Morticia spots her across the crowded dance floor. She is leaning casually against the bar counter, puffing away on her cigarette, a blasé look in her eyes as she scans the room, searching for another daddy. As the dark-clad woman is not what she is looking for, the girl fails to notice her before they stand face to face with each other.

Morticia yanks the cigarette from her mouth, taking a deep drag before she exhales slowly and controlled, blowing circles of smoke in the other woman’s face.

“I saw the way you looked at my husband,” she whispers, narrowing her eyes in a feline way. “You brave little thing. You assume all middle-aged men are dreadfully tired of their marriages, don’t you? That the sole joy they have left in their sad, empty lives is the thought of burying themselves between the thighs of someone like you. What do they give you in return? Drinks? Diamonds? Furs?”

The girl looks down at her smart dancing shoes. Probably a gift from some adulterous cad. What else do they have to offer her? Not much, Morticia reckons.

“What about pleasure?” she asks, her tone a little bit softer. The girl looks up at her and blinks, a bewildered look in her eyes behind the bold makeup. Once, twice and the last remains of her blasé attitude are washed away from her features. She blushes and it all shows: her youth, her insecurity. And in addition to that, the incurable curiosity which is the hallmark of youth.

“If you could let go of your daddy issues or daddy kink or whatever you prefer to call it just for tonight, I have a suggestion for you,” Morticia says, her eyes trained on the heart shaped face in front of her.

Wrath aside, she likes what she sees.

“What…what do you mean?” the girl replies, her voice barely audible.

“Spend the night with me.”

Morticia watches with satisfaction as the pupils widen in those honey hued eyes, making them turn almost black. If it is caused by terror or lust, she does not know for sure. Probably it is both, and that makes her plan even more interesting.

“And…what about your husband?”

“I’ll make him watch.”

Stunned by the unexpected proposal, the young woman simply stares at her for a few long seconds.

Morticia meets her gaze with the unblinking eyes of a predator. Finally, the girl gives her a slight nod, and the tiny gesture sends jolts of heat through her cold body.

She has never tried a woman before. 

Morticia does not bother to introduce herself neither does she ask for the girl’s name. Instead, she simply turns on her heels and heads for the exit. The other woman trails behind her, wide-eyed and graceful, like a deer on a leash. 

She spots her husband outside the bar caught in a heated dispute with a doorman.

“Well, at least I’m sure that I own a company which owns a company which owns a company which owns this sad excuse of a dirty, racist– “

“Gomez,” she says, and he spins on his heels and faces her.

“Morticia!” He grabs her by the shoulders but she squirms out of his grip.

“Thank heaven,” he exclaims, “nobody has died yet!”

“Died?” She raises one shapely eyebrow.

“Tish, I was taken out of the line for body search. Again! Apparently, they can’t see a Latin man without thinking–“

“Oh don’t pull the race card, darling,” she snaps.

How dare he play the victim in front of her after what he just did? It would be a lie to say that Morticia did not find her husband’s tactless behaviour humiliating. Not because she doubts her own attractiveness or his devotion to her and to monogamy. She knows perfectly well where they stand with each other. However, their audience did not. All they saw was the classic _rich man lusts for younger woman as soon as his wife looks away_ –narrative which she loathes so much.

As if being wealthy equals being shallow and prone to adulterous behaviour. As if she, at her age, should be unable to still have it all: Not only the numerous privileges that follows being married to an aristocrat, but also all his love. A love so rich and pure and deep it goes far behind what any of those narrow minded, cold hearted common people ever can fathom.

“Your mother used to frequent this bar and what she smokes is far from legal,” she continues, looking firmly into his eyes. “They saw the Addams name on your card and they got suspicious. You can’t really blame them.”

“ _My_ mother?”

“You really don’t want to go there, Gomez,” she whispers “not tonight.”

“You are right, I don’t. What I do want is to make sure you don’t do anything you will regret when you wake up tomorrow morning.”

“Like what?” She smiles slyly and he lowers his voice, leaning towards her ear.

“Like killing that girl because you are angry with me. “

“You crossed the line.”

“I did and I’m sorry. I know what those bistro girls are after and I should have ignored her. Can you please forgive me, Morticia? I just want to go home now.”

“What’s the fun in that?” she whispers back, her breath hot against his fresh-shaven jaw, and he shudders. “Forgive you? Just like that? After you blatantly flirted with a woman nearly half my age in front of your brother, the nanny and the whole damn bistro?”

“Cara mia, I didn’t mean anything by it. You know that. It’s not like I’ve ever dreamt of an adventure with someone like…her.” He nods in the girl’s direction.

“Maybe I have.”

His heart skips a beat.

They have discussed it. Late at night, in the pitch-black darkness of their bedroom. Those blessed hours when her hair, her breath, and her fantasies tickles his skin as she lies draped across his bare chest. She is bold then, and limitless, and he loves it. However, not every fantasy is meant to be lived out, he knows that, and he did not see this coming.

But that does not mean he is going to stop her.

“So…” he says quietly “If I dared to ask, would you tell me what my role will be in your scenario?”

“Tu veux être le voyeur, mon cher.”

He growls and she grants him a wicked smile in return.

Gomez hails a taxi and Morticia orders him to take the front seat. His heart beats rapidly with excitement and his gaze is fixed on the rear-view mirror as he watches the two women take their seats next to each other. The driver asks him where they want to go and he looks away for a few seconds, telling the driver to take them to Cemetery Lane as fast as he can.

Gomez’s focus returns to the mirror and what he sees makes his breath hitch in his throat and his balls tighten behind the fine fabric of his expensive underwear. What used to be a fantasy he would touch himself to on a sleepless night in some foreign hotel bed, is now coming alive right before his eyes.

_Morticia is making out with a woman._

Her dark hair spills like tar over the other woman’s décolletage as her mouth is devouring lips as soft and feminine as her own. The red talons on her fingertips ghost across smooth flesh before her hand disappears underneath the cleavage of the girl’s dress.

“You’re a lucky man, mister,” the driver says dryly, passing the remark as if he made a comment on the rain or the late night traffic. Gomez bets he has seen it all, but that doesn’t give him the right to stare at his wife.

“Keep your eyes on the road, old man,” he mutters, a quiet warning in his voice. “Your willingness to look away will be rewarded.”

“Got you, Sir,” the driver replies as they hit the highway where the traffic is quiet and the lighting is sparse. 

Torn between the creeping shadows and the flickering light, the two women are exposed, then obscured, then exposed again, like visions from a demimonde. Gomez cannot look away, not for a second. The rain weeps over the front shield and the car heat seeps into his bones making him feel drowsy yet aroused at the same time.

Traces of blood-red lipstick like scratch marks over a naked breast.

Then darkness.

Then, the twinkling in jewelry and teeth and eyes paired with strangled sounds of pleasure. His eyes follow Morticia’s hand as it travels up the girl’s thigh, making her moan in such a sinful way, that he inwardly praises the driver for still being able not to look at them.

The movements of her slender arm, like a snake under water, followed by waves of bronze and the parting of thighs, and all he can do is to watch.

All of sudden their ride is over and Gomez smacks a solid stack of hundreds on the dashboard before he tumbles out of the car, lightheaded and with a full erection throbbing against the restraints of his trousers. His own frustration is mirrored in the girl’s face as she smooths out the crinkles in her rumpled dress, looking more than just a little aroused and deranged.

His wife turns to him, lightly touching his upper arm, and the contact sends jolts of longing through his entire being. Her eyes are large and dark and alive with the newness of it all, and he feels an overwhelming need to kiss her. However, he does not give in to it, as he can tell she is determined to keep some distance between them tonight.

“You are the expert. Tell me how well I’m doing.” She pushes two of her slender fingers into his mouth. The taste is familiar and peculiar at the same time.

_Salt, cigarettes, arousal_.

He moans.

“Now?”

“You got her wet for you,” he rasps, feeling himself grow even harder.

One cannot deny that his wife is tampering with something holy tonight; after all, they have been entirely monogamous for nearly two decades. In the back of his mind, Gomez feels like he should harbour some sort of conflicted emotions right now, yet all he senses is a raw lust rippling through his chakras from the base of his hard cock to the pulsing vein in his forehead. 

“And you–” he breaths, his mouth hovering over the sculpted slope of her pale neck “–dime qué sientes, querida?”

She tilts her head back and sighs, awakening a mad hope in him that she might forget about his punishment.

“ _Caliente_?” He places one daring hand at her hip, his fingers pointing towards her groin. She bumps her rear against his erection, making him hiss with desire.

“Give me a moment and I’ll find it out for you,” he breathes, his accent thickening his voice as he claws at the glittery, black fabric covering her thighs. He is playing with fire now, but he cannot help himself.

He moans with frustration as her cool hand closes around his, stopping his attempt of riding her dress up around her waist.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she replies cooley and he curses her self control. It takes all of his own not to simply slam her against Gate and fuck her from behind. He can almost hear the rusty screeches commingling with her screams, and his heart sinks in his chest as she turns away from him.

“Make a fire in one of the guestrooms and bring me a bottle of wine,” she commands, looking at him over her shoulder.

He sighs. 

“What type of wine do you prefer,” he replies in his best submissive voice.

“A white wine, darling, one that goes well with leeches.”

“I’m starting to get why women are your thing,” Morticia states flippantly, as her hands trace the curves of the naked, young woman resting on the red satin sheet.

His chains rattles as he shifts uncomfortably in his chair. Try as he might, he cannot reach his zipper. She made sure of that when she chained him to the floor.

“You got eyes,” she said, when he begged her to at least let him satisfy himself. “Use them. I want you to remember this night.”

He will do that, no doubt about it. It is all too surreal to ever be forgotten.

“So soft,” Morticia says, and there is wonder in her voice as well as admiration as she touches a body quite similar to her own yet different. The girl shivers under her touch, her nipples darken and she shuts her eyes as Morticia turns towards her husband, the sequins in her dress twinkling as she does so.

“Look at her Gomez. So delicate…” she coos, gently squeezing the girl’s breasts. She moans and Morticia smiles. “So delectable”, she continues. “I could eat leeches right off her body. In fact, I think I will do that right now.”

“What is that?” the girl asks, leaning on her elbows as Morticia opens a small black tin can.

“Leeches in rosemary oil. They’re delicious. Do you want some?”

“No…no thank you, I’m fine.”

She pinches a fat leech between her index finger and her thumb, the oil dripping down on the taut skin of the girl’s abdomen. It wriggles a bit and she gasps when Morticia places the living piece of food between her breasts.

“Don’t move,” she commands, a sudden iciness in her voice.

“But…,” the girl protests, her eyes trained on the shiny, black creature writhing on her chest.

“Don’t worry,” Morticia whispers, her voice almost soothing, “they won’t drain you for any considerable amount of blood. I’ll eat them before they do.”

She places another one right below the breasts of her living table. The girl lets out a strangled moan and her breath escapes her mouth in a series of rapid gasps.

Gomez watches his wife in awe from the corner where he sits chained. He cannot help but love the sadist in her. She leaves the last leech to balance on the hairless mound a few inches beneath her victim’s navel. The girl’s eyes widen in terror and her lips part in a soundless protest.

“You should be extra careful with that one,” Morticia says, her voice light and casual.

“But Ma’am…please…” the girl whimpers, her face almost as pale as Morticia’s.

“Shut up.” Morticia seethes, shooting her a death glare, “you’re stressing my food with that whining of yours. Stop doing that. It spoils their flavour.”

Then, she bows down gracefully, her mouth hovering between the girl’s breasts as she catches the first leech between her teeth. Gomez relishes in the delicious sound of her teeth piercing through the spongy meat, and there is no doubt in his mind about what she wants for desert. He cannot really blame her for wanting to try what he has loved to do for decades. The thought of what he is about to witness makes him even harder if that is possible.

Morticia devours the second one with a rare display of unbridled hunger, washing it down with white wine. The girl’s eyes dart between the creature balancing tantalizingly close to her most vulnerable parts and the creature watching over her, smiling the way a harpy does before she strikes. Gomez believes she has a hard time deciding which one of them scares her the most. Nothing enhances your arousal quite as fear does, and he envies the girl who gets to experience some of his wife’s finest qualities. Needless to say, he is dying to take their guest’s place, and knowing that he is not allowed to do so is sheer torture.

Morticia drags out the time before she finishes her meal, relishing, Gomez knows, in the ultimate power she holds over both the young woman and him. Then she reaches out her hand in a graceful move, catching the last leech before it slides between the shivering, pale thighs contrasting so beautifully with the red satin sheet. The girl lets out a ragged sigh of relief as her head falls back on the pillows. Fine droplets of blood are oozing through the minor perforations on her smooth skin. Morticia tilts her wine glass over the shivering body on the bed, letting the golden liquid drip down to mix with the blood.

The woman under her flinches as the alcohol burns her raw skin. Still, the sounds she makes when Morticia bows down to lick her clean are not merely moans of agony. 

Witnessing his wife approaching the ultimate goal of her late night feast is like driving by an accident scene– it is impossible to look away.

_His wife’s hands on the girl’s thighs pushing them further apart, the delicate lips between her legs parting as petals as she does so. The gleam of wetness, the fine tip of a red tongue delivering a very intimate caress that used to be reserved for him and him only. Until now._

He watches with morbid fascination, as his wife tastes a woman for the very first time. She has learned it all, he observes, from being at the receiving end for years. Judging by the girl’s reactions, he could not have done a better job himself. The tension in every visible sinew of her young body, the stifled whimpers escaping her mouth and the way she tilts her head back, all serve as proof of his wife’s skills in her newfound game.

“Oh, I’m…I’m going to come,” she moans, her fingers clawing at the red satin sheet. Gomez hears the blatant surprise in the young woman’s voice and, despite his own torment, feels a brief flash of sympathy for their guest. That, he thinks, is the exclamation of a notorious faker. And then she comes hot and hard and very real indeed, her back arching and her cheeks flushing as she cries out towards the moulded ceiling.

“You freaked me out with those leeches, but what you did after that…that was just… _so good_ ,” the girl sighs, her head resting back at the black pillows as she looks at Morticia with adoration. Gomez could as well been chained to a rock on the planet Mars for all that she cares. All she sees is the siren staying in front of her, still clad in her sparkly, black evening gown.

Morticia turns towards him, and his breath hitches in his throat as he takes her in. Cheeks red, eyes ablaze, a fine sheen of the other woman’s pleasure glistening on her lips, and all he wants is to take her. Hell, he thinks he even could have fucked that little harlot his wife is toying with if she told him to do so. He is beyond desperate for any kind of relief that she is willing to grant him.

“See? I knew I had a talent for this.”

“You do,” Gomez admits, “I couldn’t have done it better myself. But Tish, please, this is starting to…hurt.”

He nods towards his groin. She pauses to look down at the bulge in his trousers and then at his face. She bites her lip and her eyes dart up and down his body. He grins at her when she hesitates, suddenly unsure of her next move. Morticia wants him, she always does, but she also strives to be consequent with him. If she sets her mind on punishing him, she has to follow through. Finally, she schools her features and her face becomes a blank mask again.

“I’ll give you a task that will keep you occupied.”

“Yes?”

“I want you to keep count of the orgasms you’ll be witness to tonight,” she says, her hand on her hip as she saunters towards him.

“There will be plenty of them. And I know I will lose count. And….” She pauses and grants him an almost evil smile. His heart sinks in his chest and his cock weeps a shiny tear of frustration.

“And?” he repeats.

She leans towards him, her mouth grazing his ear and he shudders.

“None of them will be yours.”

Gomez groans and thrashes in his restraints, rattling the chains that keep him her prisoner and she laughs coldly.

“At least not in a very long time,” she adds, leaving him with a faint hope.

“You really want to punish me, don’t you, Morticia?”

“Correct, my darling. Now, remember the task I gave you.”

He nods in silence.

“Numbers and figures, that is your trade after all. Don’t disappoint me now, Gomez.”

“When you are with a man,” she asks, addressing the woman that now lies writhing underneath her skilful touch “How many times do you come? On average, I mean.”

She sighs and bites her lip, reluctant to speak through her haze of pleasure.

“Mhmm…,” she moans, “usually just one time. If I’m lucky.”

“Poor thing,” Morticia replies and then they both get silent. The only sounds Gomez hears is the crackling from the fireplace paired with the faint, slick sound of his wife’s nimble fingers working the girl towards yet another climax.

“Oh God…oh fuck…oh yes, please don’t stop!” she cries and Morticia twists her lean torso to look at her husband. He notices the outlines of her hard nipples under the thin fabric of her dress as she does so.

“Give me a number, Gomez.”

“Do you enjoy yourself?” he rasps.

“Oui,” she says. “I love to give. You know that. It turns me on.”

He makes a desperate, animalistic sound in return and she lifts her eyebrows.

“My question, darling? I crave an answer”.

“Five,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

“Good boy.”

“Morticia,” he cries, the throbbing ache in his groin unbearable to take anymore.

She moves over to him, arms crossed over her chest as she gives the bulge in his trousers such a disdainful look, it is almost enough to make him come.

“Two beautiful women in the room and none of them give your cock any attention,” she says, shaking her head in mock sympathy.

“Not used to that, are you?”

“Please Morticia, I don’t ask for much,” he pleads as she is about to walk back to her female companion.

She stops and looks blankly at him, waiting for him to continue.

“I only need some–“

“Air?” she asks as she pulls down his zipper and rips his satin boxer in one, swift operation.

His erection springs forth in all its glory and he is close to weeping when she starts stroking him.

“My poor husband. Did I make you feel neglected? Humiliated even, by the sudden lack of–“

_She circles the tip of his erection with her sharp nail._

“my full–“

_She presses her nail into the velvety skin._

and undistracted–“

_She looks into his eyes_.

“attention,” she whispers as she withdraws her hand and he loses it.

He thrashes in his bonds like a caged beast, screaming for her to take him, touch him, to do whatever she wants with his body as long as she is doing _something_.

“Hush, my demon,” she says, but there is a tenderness in her voice, as she realizes she has reached a final border. After all, she does love him even when he makes her angry and she decides it is time to show him some mercy.

“I need you to be quiet now,” she whispers, loosening the ascot around his neck. He quivers like an abused animal and his skin is slick with perspiration. She inhales him and sighs with pleasure.

_Sweat, tobacco, frustration._

He is nothing but raw masculinity, and he will never cease to be the main object for her desire. Still, tonight she has promised herself to take a break from yielding to her usual preferences, and so has the girl. She has better get back to her.

“Open your mouth.”

He does as she tells him and she pushes the ascot between his teeth.

“You can thank me later,” she says as she turns the key in the lock, freeing his right arm. Driven by pure instinct, he reaches for himself, not for her. She watches as he makes a quick end to his prolonged torment, his black eyes fixated on the swell of her breast above her cleavage as he sobs his release and then she walks away from him. He lets out a deprived moan, muffled by the piece of fabric in his mouth, but she ignores him. She kneels gracefully by the bed and the girl greets her with a faint, yet satiated smile.

He watches her as she rakes her nails along her flushed cheek.

“Now honey, I will suggest a role reversal if that is fine with you?”

_The fire roars and crackles and the air is thick with the feral scent of female arousal. Tonight Gomez muses, is a night of first times for all of them. For his wife to discover the many delights of being intimate with a woman. For the girl to discover the infinite possibilities for pleasure that lies within her body if it is treated the right way. For him, to reconsider the power he holds over Morticia. Over the years, he has come to regard her sexuality as a rare, black orchid that will bloom for him only, unable to thrive outside the garden of their union. As if his body was the end and the beginning and the sole source of all her needs and fantasies. It dawns upon him now that it might not be so. The experience of being reduced to a helpless voyeur topples the paradigm that makes him the master of her desire. It is very much her own force situated somewhere in the dark crypts of her mind and body, places which he realizes he may never be given fully access to. The fact that she, year after year, has chosen to return to him with her numberless cravings and kinks and needs and wants does not make her his property. Morticia is, has and always will be very much her own person._

After she has freed her husband, she sees their guest to the door and the waiting taxi. Morticia thinks of the fervent kisses he pressed to her lips, her hair and her brow, thanking her over and over again for the visuals which now is burned into his retina and the most exquisite torture a man could ever dream of. She cannot help but smile, so very pleased with herself and Gomez’s reaction and the way she handled the whole situation. 

The girl pauses in the doorway, her gloved hand still on the handle as she turns to face Morticia.

“This was amazing. You are amazing. I don’t even know what to say…so…thank you, I guess?”

“You’re welcome.”

The taxi driver honks his horn and the girl is about to make her way down the stairs and out of her life when Morticia stops her.

“One more thing before you go.”

She halts, torn between the inpatient driver and the woman standing barefoot in her black negligée.

“In the future, look for a man somewhere else than in that bistro. Do you understand?”

“No worries Ma’am. I think you have ruined men for me.”

She smiles and reaches for a cigarette in her purse.

“I mean…after a night with you, how could I ever go back? I’ll need to find myself a girlfriend now.”

Then she lights her cigarette, skips down the few icy steps, gets in the taxi and slams the door behind her.

A faint scent of smoke mixed with a fruity perfume lingers in the air for a while, before the early morning breeze carries it away.

Morticia’s eyes follow the taxi as it rolls down the winding driveway towards Gate. She leans against the doorframe, an alabaster statue adorned in black gossamer, ageless and timeless as the dusky twilight erases every line and curve of her face until she is one with the shadows.

Then she laughs, a shrill and joyous sound, which scares the few ravens resting on the scattered headstones in the front yard. They lift their wings, soaring towards the pale horizon where dawn is about to break, croaking hoarsely a few times before they melt into the New York sky and disappear.


End file.
